


the man, the stallion, and the wind

by voicedimplosives



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Airstream Trailers are Awesome, Alternate Universe - Canada, Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Ben Solo Needs A Hug, Canada, Domestic Fluff, Domesticity, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hitchhiker Ben Solo, Mechanic Rey, Rey Needs A Hug, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed, Snowed In, honestly this is just really soft, with a dash of snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 10:55:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17099273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voicedimplosives/pseuds/voicedimplosives
Summary: Weary and alone, Rey barrels west on the Trans-Canada Hwy in her old pickup truck. Weary and in need of a lift, Ben Solo stands by the side of the road with his thumb out, in the hopes of hitching a ride.One hell of a winter storm’s about to roll in, leaving them stranded. What evershallthey do?





	the man, the stallion, and the wind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thewintersolo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewintersolo/gifts).



> I wrote this in a secret santa exchange, for [Madison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewintersolo/pseuds/thewintersolo), the illustrious author of [many](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15610494) [wonderful](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15652359) Hay [crackfics](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16081766). I hope this sufficed, friend. Merry Christmas! ｡∠(*・ω･)っ⌒由
> 
> Also: many, many thanks to [Kat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryminded/pseuds/delia-pavorum) and [Trixie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TourmalineGreen/pseuds/TourmalineGreen), who helped immensely into whipping this fic into shape!!

 

_I'm gonna find me a reckless man_

_Razor blades and ice in his eyes_

_Just a touch of sadness in his fingers_

_Thunder and lightning in his thighs_

 

_And we're gonna ride…_

 

_I'm gonna chase the sky forever_

_With the man, the stallion and the wind_

_The sun is gonna burn into a cinder_

_Before we ever pass this way again_

 

—Cat Power, “Silver Stallion” [cover]

 

* * *

 

  
  
Driving in rural Ontario can be a risky undertaking in the winter. The main highways are trafficked enough that they stay clear and the plows regularly prowl the sleepier backroads, but insidious ice still finds its way onto the road under the cover of long, bitter-cold nights. And people who are well used to the conditions, after a lifetime of Canadian winters, drive awfully fast.

 

Really, the smart choice for Rey would be to take I-90 West through the American heartland. Or go even further south, down through the corn fields and canyons of the southwest. Or fly, even! It’s not like there’s a timeline or definite destination, since she hasn’t even told Finn she’s coming. And there’s no budget now, well… considering.

 

The thing is, Rey hasn’t really been in the mood for smart choices, this year.

 

Besides, didn’t somebody say something once about how it’s the journey that matters, not the destination?

 

Yeah. Whatever. She’s… taking the scenic route. In late December, on rolling two-lane highways, in the winter-buried wilds around Algonquin Park. Driving an ancient Ford pickup truck, and dragging along an Airstream trailer that she spent two months fixing up after-hours, in her autoshop back in Saint John. With some of the money bequeathed to her by her late employer, Lando.

 

So. That’s what Rey’s doing. Just… living it up. So what if she’s lost the closest thing she ever had to a father? So what if she’s all alone in the world again?

 

No. Rey doesn’t care. Not at all. He’s just a boss who hired her under the table when she was fifteen, let her live in the small apartment above the shop once she’d emancipated herself at seventeen; he’s just the guy who taught her about cars. He was old. People die. It’s not a big deal.

 

Even if he _did_ leave her a surprisingly vast fortune, for the owner of an auto repair shop. Even if he _did_ ask for her by name, two days before he died. Even if he _was_ so thin and tired under the hospital bed sheets that she had to cough theatrically to hide her horrified gasp; even if the skin on his hand _was_ papery thin, and cold, and dry, when he snatched up hers and demanded that she go out into the world, and find her place in it; even if she _did_ nearly drown in her own tears and snot, promising him anything he asked of her.

 

Even if.

 

That’s not why Rey is carting an ancient trailer across Canada in the middle of winter, okay?

 

She’s just… taking the scenic route. That’s all.

 

. . .

 

She’s not lonely, per se. Not really. She’s been alone most of her life, so what’s the difference between being alone on the streets of Saint John, in school, or in her parents’ home, and being alone behind the wheel? There isn’t any. No difference. None.

 

And even if she were lonely all those years, so what? Who was there to judge her? That’s the great thing about being alone, isn’t it? Your whole damn life is a big judgement-free zone.

 

Her life is a walk in the park these days anyway, compared to how it used to be.

 

So she starts talking to herself after a half a week of driving west, so what? Driving all day is boring. And she’s always talked to herself: to-do lists, and musings, and rehearsing what she might say in hypothetical conversations, which might someday occur. Just because she’s always been alone doesn’t mean she always will, right? Someone might just… walk up to her, one day. Ask her how she feels about Tolkien or Mustangs or quahogs.

 

She loves him, she’s indifferent, she hates them. For the record.

 

Anyway, talking to herself is not some sign that she’s lost her marbles or that she’s destined for lonely cat lady status or something. It just passes the time, helps to keep her alert.

 

Doesn’t mean anything. She’s _not_ lonely. Not really.

 

. . .

 

Walking alongside a highway is shit. That’s a given, regardless of the season, and regardless of the highway’s size. Walking along a small country highway after a couple months of winter—a woolen sky heavy with the next round of snow above you and the grey remains of the last round under your feet—that’s its own special brand of shit.

 

This morning alone, Ben’s been splashed with icy slush by no less than three passing eighteen-wheelers. The air’s been damp all day, frosty but still a bit warmer than yesterday, and he’s sure it’s a sign of a coming storm. On either side of the road are towering hemlocks and firs, with prickly needles poking through their snowy blankets like whiskers. Birches and Sugar maples, too—although their leaves have long since withered and died, and their grey branches remind him of spindly, snow-flecked fingers reaching up towards the foreboding sky.

 

Ben’s having a bad day. A bad week, really. A bad year. Okay, fine. He’s been having a bad decade.

 

Should’ve taken the communal minivan, when he left. He thought about it. But somehow it seemed like it would be more of a _statement_ if he left with nothing but his belongings; just his clothes and a few books, and a couple hundred dollars he’d kept stowed away in a rolled up sock.

 

He could buy a bus ticket, ride off to… somewhere. If he ever makes it to a town that’s more than a gas station, a general store and a Dixie Queen—he will.

 

But for now, his options have narrowed down to this. Walking.

 

He shoves his gloved hands deeper into the flannel-lined pockets of his hunting jacket, and hikes his duffel bag higher up on his shoulder. Fights back a shiver that threatens to run rampant through his body. Just because it’s warmer than yesterday doesn’t mean that it’s warm; even with his heavy black boots, jeans, long underwear, wool sweater, jacket, and gloves… he’s still freezing his balls off. Especially when he’s going downhill, as he is right now.

 

Amidst the low moan of the wind and the groaning of tree limbs bowing against their will, he hears it: a distant ‘shhhh.' Car tires on wet pavement. Still pumping his legs, he turns, and begins walking backwards. An expensive-looking sedan crests the hill behind him; he bets there’s a family inside. They won’t stop for him and he knows it, but he sticks his thumb out anyway. His guess is confirmed as they pass without slowing; there’s a young couple in the front seats, and what he supposes are their kids peeking out at him from the back window.

 

Fuck ‘em. He wouldn’t want a ride with them, anyway. Cooped up in a tiny sedan bench seat with a gaggle of snot-nosed kids, listening to whatever passes for family-friend entertainment these days? Pass.

 

Another car’s coming, though. He spots it at the top of the hill: an old truck, dragging a vintage metal trailer behind it.

 

 _Well,_ Ben thinks, jutting his thumb out again, _can’t hurt to try._

 

. . .

 

Rey’s been practicing her talk-show interview answers while she drives. It’s something she’s always done, when she’s bored or when things seem bleak. Helps her feel like less of a nobody.

 

She imagines the scenario like this: She’s dressed in a risqué slip of a dress. Something slinky, something satin. Perched on the edge of a tastefully upholstered armchair, she leans onto the desk beside her, giggling. There’s a besuited man behind the desk; he guffaws at all her jokes, asks her about her latest projects, teases her about her love life. The stage lights shine down on them, bright and hot, and the audience waits with bated breath for her next charming anecdote.

 

 _Now what, Miss Johnson,_ she can almost hear him say, _inspired this journey?_

 

“Oh, you know,” she says aloud, with a coy laugh and a glance at the rear-view mirror. “I had money to burn. It’s a big world out there! So much to see, really. And… I never got to go camping, as a child. Not traditional camping, anyway. Not fun camping. Now I camp every night! That’s fitting, don’t you think? Yes, truly, I’m having a grand time.”

 

_Any favorite moments, so far?_

 

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s all been so liberating,” she demurs, then frowns. That doesn’t feel right. So vague.

 

Instead, she tries: “I love driving!”

 

No. Too trite. And not even particularly true. Why does she sound so strange, to her own ears?

 

“I’m so happy to be in control, behind the wheel, y’know? I pick the tunes, I pick the route. Just me and the open road. I’m a lone wolf!”

 

This isn't working. Her voice is flat, and dull. Even pretending she’s a beloved celebrity sitting on the set of a popular talk show, she cannot muster enthusiasm for this ridiculous venture. Rey feels like an idiot.

 

The dream of the talk show dissipates. She’s left in the cabin of her truck, bouncing along a bit of pothole-ridden highway. All around her, pine trees rise up, stern and stoic beneath their snowy cloaks. She checks the rearview again; the Airstream is fine, still safely hitched to the back of the truck.

 

“I’m an idiot,” she says. Her leather gloves creak on the steering wheel from how tightly she grips it. Why didn’t she just fly to Vancouver? Just because you can do a thing, doesn’t mean you should. Lando used to say that.

 

Too late now, she tells herself. Already on my way.

 

The road is curving to the right, up another rolling hill; they’re seemingly infinite, in this region. The earth was blasted away here, to make way for the highway, so the road dips below the forest, and is walled in by striated rock face, rippled with scars from the dynamite. It feels like she might enter into the very earth itself at any second, like she might disappear into a tunnel. Then she reaches the peak, and looks out over the sloping downward road that heads back into the forest.

 

There’s a tall, long-legged figure on the narrow shoulder ahead. Small at first, but she sits on the brake while the truck descends so that she can get a better view of it as she draws near. Down, down she goes and with each meter she passes, the figure becomes bigger.

 

A man. A damp, hunched over, miserable-looking man. He’s walking backwards, chin tucked into the collar of his faded camo jacket, and he’s got one arm extended outwards, a gloved thumb pointing towards the heavens.

 

His dark eyes burn with something, glinting in the dull afternoon light. Rey recognizes that look; her eyes burn like that too, when she catches glimpses of herself unaware in mirrored surfaces.

 

In an instant, every horror story she’s ever heard about hitchhikers flashes through her mind. And is summarily dismissed.

 

“Fuck it,” she says, pressing her foot all the way down on the brake, easing the truck over. She glances in her passenger side mirror; he’s spun around and is striding toward the car.

 

He’s twenty feet away.

 

Fifteen.

 

Ten.

 

Five.

 

. . .

 

Hurriedly, but taking care not to slip in the slush and topple over into the massive embankment of plowed grey snow that lines the road, he makes his way past the shiny silver camping trailer and up to the passenger side window.

 

He can’t believe it, when she comes into view. A pretty young thing, sitting behind the steering wheel. She gawks at him, lips slightly parted. So far the only people who’ve stopped for him have been grizzled old truck drivers, so _he’s_ momentarily struck dumb as well. So there she sits, and there he stands, each staring at the other through a dirt-splattered pane of laminated glass.

 

Finally, she leans over the console and rolls the window down, just an inch. She flits her eyes up at the darkening sky, then back to him.

 

“Nice day for a walk, eh?”

 

He’s not sure he responds; it’s possible he just grumbles wordlessly. It’s hard to think of words, as he drinks in the sight of her soft cheeks, her bow-shaped lips, big eyes rendered dark by the shadows in the truck. Her hair—a shade of brown that reminds Ben of hot chocolate and roasting chestnuts—is pulled up into a sloppy bun. There are freckles, light ones, scattered across the bridge of her nose and high cheekbones. He has this sudden urge to chart them with his fingertips, so he balls his hands into fists.

 

She smiles. “Where are you headed?”

 

Shit. Where _is_ he headed? He has no idea where he’s headed, he’s had no direction in the past two days—besides _away_. His old classmate Snoke told him he could come stay with him in Saskatoon, though, anytime he wanted. _Just drop in,_ he’d said. So.

 

“Saskatoon,” he tells her.

 

Her face falls, incrementally. “Oh. I’m going west, but… I don’t know if I’m stopping there, along the way.”

 

“You don’t know?”

 

“I… I haven’t decided,” she amends. “The exact route, I mean. Saskatoon might not make the cut.”

 

She’s aimless, he realizes. Drifting, like him. They could drift together, maybe. If she opens the car door for him. But he doesn’t want to scare her.

 

“You don’t want to take me, you don’t have to.”

 

She scrunches her nose; he bites back a smile, at how cute it is. “Can you drive?”

 

“‘Course.” Pushing the straps of his bag higher up his shoulder, he leans an elbow on the door.

 

“With a trailer?” she adds, tipping her head towards the back of the truck.

 

He glances at the thing. It looks unwieldy, but not completely impossible. “…I could figure it out.”

 

For a long fraught moment, she merely studies him. Ben does his best not to frown; he tries to make himself look small, and nonthreatening.

 

“I’m armed,” she says, seemingly apropos of nothing.

 

And isn’t that just a bitch? Not her, but the leery distrust she’s projecting. It might mean they conduct the whole ride in complete silence, which would be nice. But Ben figures it’s more likely that she’ll bombard him with questions about things he does _not_ want to discuss. If she even lets him in the car, that is. It only takes a second’s deliberation to come to a resolution: it’s probably better that he doesn’t get in her truck, especially if she’s uncomfortable enough with the idea that she’d warn him like that.

 

So he rolls his eyes and takes a step away from the truck. “Congratulations.” Oh, well. Might’ve been nice. The again, might’ve been a headache.

 

“Wait! Are you a psycho?”

 

“… I can just keep walking,” he replies, pivoting on his heel. “Thanks anyway.” He sidesteps the mirror, passes the hood of the truck, and resigns himself to hoofing it. Less than a minute later, he hears her engine rev, and then the passenger window draws even with him again.

 

“Wait!” she calls. “Hey! Stop walking!”

 

With a growl, he does. He sets both hands on the door again. Cocks his head. “What?”

 

“I’m Rey.”

 

He shrugs as best he can, with the weight on his shoulders. This is a bad idea; he should send her on her way. If he gets in the car with her, she _is_ going to ask questions—he just knows it. About his past. Where he’s coming from. Why he’s headed to Saskatoon. He’ll have to spend half the ride making up lies, and the other half maintaining them. And the trickiest question of all is usually the one people ask right away. Because… what does he call himself, now?

 

He’s avoided thinking about it, since he left. Most of the truckers haven’t asked, and the ones who have—they didn’t seem to mind when he lied. But he has the strangest notion that she’ll sense the lie, and call him on it. That she’ll sense all his lies. That she’ll force him to confront what he’s left behind.

 

“What’s your name?”

 

And… there it is. Dammit.

 

“Look sweetheart,” he snarls, “I need a ride, not a headache. Think I’ll just wait for another car. Thanks. Anyway.” He makes to push himself off of the car, but is halted by her shouted:

 

“Hey!”

 

He raises an eyebrow at her.

 

“Okay,” she huffs, “there are a lotta things wrong with what you just said but let’s start with this—I’m not your sweetheart, I’m Rey.” She glares at him. “And I’m not a headache!”

 

 _Enough’s enough_ , he thinks, with another half-hearted shrug. Starts walking again.

 

Rey keeps pace, letting the truck roll forward beside him. “What the fuck, dude?”

 

 _Keep walking,_ he tells himself. _Don’t look at her._ Even if she _is_ adorable.

 

“Hey! Aren’t you cold?”

 

Of course he’s cold. Cold is a distant memory, a hazy daydream from his past. Ben isn’t just cold; he’s freezing. Hasn’t been able to feel anything below his thighs for hours. Suspects his giant ears will have to be amputated, although that might be a kind of mercy. But he continues walking, and doesn’t respond.

 

“You _look_ cold,” she calls out, in a softer tone. She sounds chastened. Subdued. Lonely.

 

He will spare her _one_ glance. Just one, just to check if she’s okay. That’s it, no more. He does so, sneaking a sidelong peek. She’s frowning, her eyebrows are knitted together, her forehead creased.

 

Shit. If she cries, he’s done for.

 

“Yeah,” he coughs out. “I’m fucking cold.”

 

“I’ll take you to Saskatoon.” The car stops moving. A second later, he hears the ‘thwick’ of a door being unlocked. When he steals another look at her, she’s leaning over the console. She opens the passenger door, pushing it out at him.

 

Then she offers him a sad little half-smile. “Get in. Okay?”

 

Ben looks around. Dark skies, wind’s picking up. Might not be another car on the road for hours. She’s cute. Rude, and skittish. Nosy, probably. But cute, and maybe not as mistrustful as he’d thought. And beggars can’t be choosers.

 

He sighs, and tosses his bag into the bed of the truck.

 

. . .

 

“Ben,” he grunts, as he settles into his seat.

 

Rey exhales slowly, relieved. She really thought she’d driven him away, for a second there. That she’d come on a little too strong, or come off as a little too prickly. The thought of it, driving him away—him with his dark fierce eyes and his furrowed brow and his hunched shoulders, all alone and so cold—seems intolerable, somehow. She knows what she saw in that half-second when their eyes first met: a kindred spirit. You don’t just leave somebody like that on the side of the highway. She couldn’t. She can’t. And she hasn’t—thank God.

 

“Hi, Ben,” she says, pulling back onto the road. “So. Hitchhiking in the winter. Bold of you.”

 

“We doing life stories now?”

 

She bites the inside of her cheek at his defensive tone. “Is that not what people do, in this situation?”

 

“I’d be happy to skip it.”

 

“Well, _I’m_ going to Vancouver,” she volunteers, ignoring what he’s just said.

 

He shifts, flicking his eyes towards her then away again. “Why?”

 

“Oh, I dunno.” She grins; a victorious little thrill rises up inside her. Whether his interest is piqued, or it’s just polite response, she doesn’t really care. Rey just wants someone to talk to. “I have an old friend out there. Never been, always heard nice things. Maybe I’ll go to the islands, after? Take a cruise to Alaska. Then… who knows? Maybe head down the coast to California. Never been to America, not even on vacation. I could go to Texas. I’ve never seen Texas! I’ve never seen the desert either, can you imagine?”

 

“The desert’s overrated,” he mutters, then falls silent.

 

Well.

 

Another tactic, then: teasing some info out of him. “Where are you from?”

 

“All over.”

 

“Oh.” She’s quiet for a minute, mulling over how that might have come to be. “Military brat?”

 

“Yeah.” She hears him pull off his gloves. “My father.” Sneaks a quick peek: he’s staring down at his hands. They’re like big paws, but they’re very clean, she notices, neatly trimmed fingernails at the end of long fingers. Pale, like his face. Not what she’d expect from someone who’s been living outside for long; but then, she’s starting to suspect that he hasn’t been.

 

She hums her understanding. “And… your mum?”

 

“Politician. She was in DC mostly. But, uh—”

 

“What?” she prompts.

 

“Nothing. I got sent to live with my uncle, here in Ontario, when I was a teenager.” A sigh. He props his elbow against the door, and rests his chin in his hand. “Ended up sticking around.”

 

“Why?”

 

Exasperation, or at least, it sounds like it, when he blows a heavy breath out his nose. “You ask a lot of questions.”

 

“I’m very inquisitive,” she intones, sing-song—and although she doesn’t look at him, focused as she is on the road, she thinks maybe she can feel his mood lighten. Slightly.

 

But all she gets for her gentle interrogation is a contemplative, “Hm,” followed by more silence.

 

“Okay, tit for tat, right?” She blinks at the dreary day, the lonely highway rolling out before them, the snowy trees, as she tries to decide what to tell him. Then: “I grew up on the coast, in Saint John.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“There’s a lot of English and Irish there, that’s why I have the accent,” she adds. “In case you were wondering.”

 

A murmured: “Okay.” He’s determined not to make this easy, it seems.

 

But she perseveres. “You could—tell me about your family. Or more about yourself.” This is more than she’s spoken to another human being in a week; in fact, this is more than she’s spoken to anyone who wasn’t being paid to deal with her, since… Lando’s funeral, probably.

 

He sighs. “You don’t have to take me all the way to Saskatoon.”

 

That stings, although she tries not to let it show. “Well—where do you want me to drop you, then?”

 

“Next town is fine.”

 

“Fine,” she snaps, blinking a completely normal amount. Not all too fast, or more often than usual. So he doesn’t want a ride. Whatever. He’s terrible company, anyway.

 

“Fine,” he echoes, under his breath.

 

. . .

 

Rey waits fifteen minutes to see if the strained silence will open him up, but it doesn’t.

 

She flicks on the radio, spins the dial through station after station of static. A few voices rise up from the sea of crackling noise: she catches a refrain of a Christian rock song, which was never her thing; an oldies station that she leaves for a while, but it only seems to play the same three songs on a never-ending loop; finally, she happens upon some talk radio that might suffice, but the topic of the day is local politics, and Rey has no idea who or what the fuck they are discussing, nor does she care.

 

With a huff, she clicks it off. Checks the clock. Forty minutes have passed. She steals a glance at him. He sits stiff, big hands gripping thick thighs like he’s trying to anchor himself. His head is turned, and he stares at the passing forest, so silent that she can’t be sure he’s breathing. His dark hair brushes his shoulders. The edges of his ears just peek out from it. He’s got a few days worth of stubble growing across his cheeks and jaw; in profile, his strong Roman nose is very striking. It feels like he’s taking up all the air in the cab.

 

“I’m a mechanic,” she supplies, breaking the hush.

 

Really, Rey should just give up the ghost but she _can’t_ , she can’t do that _—_ she _finally_ has someone riding along with her. She can’t just sit in silence. He bobs his head, once. Well, she’ll take it. Beggars can’t be choosers.

 

“My boss, he knew everything about cars. Like, all cars. That’s what it felt like, anyway. Lando, he was a really smart guy.”

 

He grunts; it might just be the most indifferent sound she’s ever heard. Whatever. Rey is bored, and she has someone to talk to—whether he likes it or not.

 

“I like working on old junkers best. The ones that people have completely given up on.”

 

That gets something from him. Faintly, he says, “Oh?”

 

“Yeah!” She nods at the windshield. “Their engines just make more sense to me. And it’s like… everyone’s forgotten them. Left them behind, rejected for newer better tech. But there’s still so much to discover under the hood, y’know? There’s so much potential left for what they can be. And it’s up to me to restore that to them. I like that part.”

 

A long, long pause. It stretches on for so long that she’s convinced he’s either asleep or pretending to be. But when she flicks her eyes his way, she can see that he’s very much awake, and staring straight ahead.

 

“Never paid attention to cars,” he says, at last. For a second, she thinks that’ll be it. Back to gloomy silence. He hesitates, she can spy him working his jaw in her peripheral vision. Then, like an olive branch being proffered: “I like motorcycles, though. Had one, when I was a teenager.”

 

“Oh my god, yes. Motorcycles. So, this one time? I found an old 1932 Bluestar on Craigslist, right? Two hundred bucks. With the original sidecar. That’s a _steal_. Like, it’s obscene. I bought it, of course, felt like I was getting away with something, and it took me almost a year to—” she cuts herself off; she’s babbling. A glance at him; he’s completely stone-faced, eyes riveted to the road. “Unless, sorry—maybe you don’t want to hear about this.”

 

“No,” he grunts, then shifts in his seat, turning his knees to face her, pressing his broad back against the door. “I—tell me. I want… I want to hear it.”

 

“Really?”

 

A masculine clearing of his throat. “Yeah.”

 

She smiles so wide she can feel it scrunch her nose, squint her eyes, pull her cheeks taut.

 

“Good. Well, the thing about Bluestars from the 1930s—” she begins, and he hums encouragingly, and just like that, she’s off to the races.

 

. . .

 

“Anyway,” she concludes, over an hour later, “that’s more or less how you restore an old Airstream trailer. At least, that’s what I did with mine.”

 

“Huh.”

 

It’s been snowing for a while now, so she hardly dares to look at him much; she needs to focus on the road, which is getting progressively harder to see. But she feels his gaze on her. It warms her; it feels appraising. Like maybe he’s impressed. Maybe that’s just wishful thinking, though.

 

“Regret riding with me yet?” she jokes, although her voice doesn’t quite sound as playful as she intended. It comes out more like a sincere query. Like she’s really checking. Which she’s _not_. But if he answers yes—

 

“What? No.” She catches his hand hovering near her shoulder for a second, like he’s going to pat it reassuringly. Then it drops, and he merely says, “You’re—good with your hands. It’s—I like hearing you talk about cars. You, uh…” he pauses, sniffing, like he’s choosing his words, “You have a passion. And a skill, a useful one.”

 

“You don’t have any skills?”

 

“Some, but—”

 

“But what?” She huffs, offended on his behalf. “I bet you’re good at something. What do you do, anyway? You haven’t been out on the road very long—” almost as soon as the words leave her mouth, she wishes she could take them back, but what’s done is done, so she tries to cover with, “—or at least, you don’t look like it.”

 

“Horticulture,” he mumbles. “Well, agriculture, really.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes. Oversaw a greenhouse, and a small farm.”

 

That is… not what she expected. “What kind of stuff did you grow?”

 

“Food, mostly,” he tells her. “Vegetables. Some herbs, medicinal and for eating. A few flowers I liked.”

 

A man who can grow a garden. Something about that is intriguing, to Rey. Somewhat abashedly, she informs him, “I have a succulent. Painted-lady. Well, _had_. I gave it away with a lot of my other stuff, before I left.”

 

“You’re not going back to Saint John?” Huh. So he _was_ paying attention, after all.

 

She bites back a smirk, saying: “Not… I don’t know, to be honest. Maybe someday.” His eyes are dark, and shining, when she hazards a look. “Are you ever going back, to where you came from?”

 

“DC?”

 

“No—” she clicks her tongue, at his feigned ignorance. “Well, sure. But I mean, wherever you were—in Canada?”

 

“No.” The reply is terse, and no further explanation ensues.

 

“Oh,” is all she can muster, feeling like she’s hit another dead end.

 

Another tense hush that falls over the truck, and this one feels even more difficult to break than the last.

 

. . .

 

It’s just after four and the light is falling fast. The snow is, too; fat, fluffy flakes whirl around the car. Screeching wind drives them against the windshield, where the wipers are set to their highest speed. Rey is straining forward, her body a rigid line; she’s practically leaning against the steering wheel. Eyes narrowed, she peers out into the white abyss, and Ben wishes he could reverse the frown that tugs her lips downwards, the consternated crease of her brow.

 

He can’t say he blames her; they’re doing about fifty kilometers per hour, and he wishes she would go slower. There’s barely any road visible in front of them—a few meters, maybe—and everything behind them is swallowed up by the snow, like a gaping white maw closing in on their bumper. When he turns to peer out the back window, he can barely even see the trailer.

 

“I don’t—” she sighs, taking one hand off the wheel for a second to rub at her eyes, “I don’t know if I can keep driving in this.”

 

She shouldn’t, he thinks. She looks tired. No, tired is an understatement. She looks _weary_. Depleted. Dark shadows fan out beneath her eyes. Under her coat, a thick sweater billows over a thin frame.

 

He doesn’t know her, wouldn’t presume to know her business. But Ben thinks she could use a hot meal or two, and a good night’s sleep.

 

He can't seem to find the words to get the conversation back on track, after he derailed it with his curt reply. Regret washed over him the minute he bit out that word, ‘no.’ It’s not her fault, after all, that there’s nothing left for him back _there_. She didn’t have anything to do with that.

 

“I could take over for a bit, if you want,” he offers.

 

“D’you feel comfortable driving in this mess?” Her eyebrows raise up, like he’s surprised her. He kind of likes it; likes the idea of showing her a thing or two. What could he even teach her, though? He’s spent most of his life hidden away, drowning in the bullshit fantasy his uncle was trying to create.

 

Still.

 

He shakes his head. “Not happily. But—if you want a spot, I can do it.”

 

“I don’t like this,” she murmurs. “Look how it’s sticking to the road. I can barely see anything.”

 

She presses a button on the dashboard, and there’s a clicking sound: hazard lights. She flicks on the high beams too, although they hardly make a difference.

 

Ben has no idea where they are. How far are they from Luke’s commune? How far was he from it, when she picked him up? How far until the next town? He told her he wanted to be dropped there, but after an hour or so of pleasant conversation, he’s regretting that too. He wants to stay in the car with her; he wants to drive all the way to Saskatoon with her. Hell, Vancouver even.

 

He wants to know her, learn everything about her. There isn’t any place he can call home anymore, and as far as he can gather, it’s the same for her. The thought—that they are both homeless, that she’s as alone as he is—sends him off on a tangent, murky half-formed notions presenting themselves to him like visions of the future.

 

A sign appears, up ahead. Metal painted kelly green, a large arrow, and blocky white letters, applied with a reflective paint. It reads:

 

**‘SCENIC OVERLOOK’**

 

Rey bites her lip; he can almost see the wheels turning. Just as he’s about to suggest they stop there for a while, wait for the storm to pass, she flicks on her blinker.

 

The turn appears on the right side of the road. She doesn’t remark on it, merely takes the exit—slowing as she follows the turning road until they hit a broad parking lot, empty save for the layer of fresh snow that’s coated everything.

 

After she’s parked and killed the engine, she turns to him. Lips set, eyebrows drawn—like she’s ready for an argument.

 

Ben doesn’t give her one. He just nods. Tries to maintain a neutral expression, tries not to express any pleasure at being stuck here with her. Doesn’t want to seem weird. She nods back.

 

They both stare out the windshield. The only sounds are the wind and their breathing. Together, they watch the world around them get whiter and whiter with each passing minute, even as the sky above gets darker and darker—casting everything in the lavender hue of a faded bruise.

 

. . .

 

“We could—” she fidgets, messing with the pull tab of her coat’s zipper, “—uh, go… sit in the trailer. I have a generator, and a space heater.”

 

“Yeah,” he rasps out. “Should probably get my bag inside. It’s not waterproof.”

 

“Good idea.”

 

Opening the door is like jumping into a sea of icy needles; the temperature has definitely plummeted. Despite her heavy down coat, mittens, knitted wool toque and scarf—her teeth immediately begin to chatter. The snowflakes, which looked so pretty and soft from the safety of the cab, sting as they bombard her face.

 

Ben hefts his big khaki duffel bag out of the bed of the truck like it weighs nothing, although it certainly _looks_ heavy. Rey catches sight of her reflection in the shiny steel body of the trailer, as she circles it; she looks hungry, her eyes slightly glazed over. Fuck. _Pull it together,_ she chides herself. _Rein it in._ Tugging down the trailer’s little step—on the passenger side, where Ben stands, waiting for her to unlock the door—she tries to recall the last time she got laid.

 

She can’t. Maybe a couple years ago? There was that guy, Ivano, who she met at the bar down the street from Lando’s, and brought back to her apartment a few times. The sex wasn’t very good, though, and things had fizzled out after a month or two. And after… Well. It’s just been Rey and her vibrator, ever since.

 

 _Better that way,_ she thinks. What more can she ask for than a quick and reliable orgasm, every time?

 

The trailer is freezing, once they get inside. “Be right back,” she tells him. Groaning, she lifts the generator with both arms, and turns back towards the door. Somehow, he’s already there. He pulls it open for her, and wordlessly follows her back out into the snow.

 

Rey doesn’t really need his help to walk the six meters worth of power cable and set the generator down. She doesn’t need his help to set it up, or to yank the recoil rope a couple times, until the motor starts up. She doesn’t need his help to unhitch the trailer, or to pull down the stabilizer jacks that will stop the trailer from bouncing every time they so much as breathe.

 

But he doesn’t ask her if she needs his help, he just gives it—so she accepts. He cranks the motor until it starts, lifts the trailer’s coupler while she steadies the ball mount, and when she sets upon the stabilizers on one side, he does the same on the other.

 

It takes half the time it normally would, which she supposes makes sense. But it’s strange to find herself back inside the frigid trailer in fifteen minutes, instead of thirty. And turning on the space heater helps to warm the place up pretty quickly, but there again, things take less time than they normally would.

 

Because there’s another body in here with her. A big one, pouring off heat and the smell of man. Not that Rey is like, sniffing the air or anything.

 

It’s just… the trailer is pretty small. She’s done the best with it that she could; the interior has been gutted and refurbished, and it’s cozy inside. All _her_ doing, the result of months of work. But it’s a 1966 Airstream Caravel, intended—she’s sure—for weekend getaways, not semi-permanent living. Fourteen feet long, with a tiny bathroom at the back and a cushioned bench seat that wraps around one corner in the front, running the width of the trailer and along the streetside wall. Seven feet wide, although that’s cut down considerably by the kitchenette counter beside the door, and the bench seat, plus the wardrobe built into the trailer, between the bench and the bathroom. At its tallest point, in the middle of the trailer, they can probably both stand upright without issue. At the ends… she doubts he’ll be able to.

 

The strangest sensation comes over her; it’s like she’s embarrassed, or… awaiting his opinion. Rey pulls her jacket off, hanging it on a hook over the door, then crosses her arms. At last, with a deep breath, she looks up at Ben.

 

He’s still near the door, studying the place. His neck is bent to avoid banging his head. Sidling past her, he turns on the sink. Dances his fingers in the water before turning it off. Slides open the accordion-style bathroom door and does the same with the cramped shower—just holding his hand out for a moment—before he turns it off, and slides the door shut again. Spins back around, shrugging out of his coat, which he hangs over hers on the same hook.

 

And she can smell him. He smells a bit like old sweat, probably the result of however long he’d been walking before she picked him up. But also like cedarwood, and winter air. Pine, maybe. She inhales, as subtly as she can. It’s a good smell. Comforting, somehow.

 

“Nice,” he sighs, sinking down onto the bench at the front. He stretches his arms out along the seat, playing with the fringe-hemmed curtain that covers the front window. “Nice place.”

 

“Thanks.” Her voice is small, and hushed; but she’s glowing, or at least, she feels like it, from that bit of praise. A two-burner gas range, built into the Formica countertop, takes up about half the counter; she moves towards it, ignoring the heat in her cheeks. Below, inside a cabinet, there sits a propane tank; it needs to be re-opened. She does so, then fills a kettle and sets it atop one of the burners, turning the dial until it clicks and lights a small flame. “Tea?”

 

“Sure.”

 

He sounds distracted. There’s a sound of a zipper, and things being shifted around. When she looks over at him, he’s removing an old dog-eared paperback from his duffel. With a sigh, he reclines on the bench at the front, flipping through the pages. Now that he’s removed his bulky hunting jacket, she notices how well-built he is: broad and tall, and seemingly very… firm. It’s almost comical, to see him stretched out on the narrow bench.

 

It’s also very, very hot. He’s a big guy. Seeing him all larger-than-life in her tiny home, it’s doing weird things to her stomach. Making it perform a complex series of acrobatics.

 

Rey bites her lip, and turns back to the kettle. “Black? Or—” she pauses, opening one of the cabinets and rifling through the boxes, “green? Chamomile? Rooibos? Mint? Lavender?”

 

“Big tea fan, huh?”

 

“It’s good for you,” she sniffs. Not to mention that it’s comforting, on cold lonely nights, when she’s curled up all alone in this trailer, with only a few inches of stainless steel between her and the dark forested parks where she’s been camping.

 

“I’ll have whatever you have,” he says, gently.

 

There’s something about this whole situation—his beakish nose is buried in his book, and without looking he loosens the laces of his boots, then kicks them towards the door—it’s very… domestic. She pulls a drawer out from beneath the lengthwise bench, extracting the two unzipped sleeping bags she uses as her blankets at night. Leaving one on her bench and tossing the other on top of him, she unfolds the dinette table from the wall, then returns to the kettle.

 

. . .

 

He’d meant what he said: this place is adorable, just like her. Cozy and practical, equipped with everything she’d need to survive for however long she’s on the road but still full of soft touches that help it feel like a home.

 

The minute he walked inside, Ben wanted to sit down and stay a while. Forever, even. Maybe. Which would definitely be an imposition and is almost certainly longer than Rey had in mind. He’d busied himself by inspecting the facilities after that thought had popped up in his mind, mostly because he could feel her watching him, expectant.

 

And he was trying to think of something that say that didn’t include him begging her to take him in, keep him—like a stray dog in need of a home. He settled on ‘nice,’ because it seemed like a pretty neutral compliment. Not too charged with anything, not too full of meaning. Just a normal thing for a normal guy to say, about a girl’s home.

 

In an attempt to look casual, he’d pulled his old copy of the _Return of the King_ out of his bag, and settled in for his umpteenth re-read. It hadn’t taken, though; he’d continued stealing glances at her, as she fussed with this and that, tossing a sleeping bag on top of him, scanning the contents of her mini-fridge, checking on the kettle.

 

And it was nice. It _is_ nice. Being in this small space with her. But the space itself, too. It’s homey and it smells like her, and he can see that she’s ready to defend it, if he dares to cast aspersions. Which he wouldn’t dare. And not just because there’s a storm raging around them and he’d prefer to stay in here, out of the snow and comfortable; she’s got this sliver of vulnerability that peeks through at odd moments, and it makes him want to pull her into his arms and kiss her. Makes him want to fortify her, in some way.

 

He needs to cool it with those thoughts. They’re practically strangers.

 

Ben gives up on the book, sets his elbows on the little table, and watches her steep two mugs of jasmine tea. She’s got a nice figure—tall, slender, a nice ass that looks great in her faded jeans and dainty, soft-looking breasts under her knubby cream sweater—and there’s something satisfying, on a primal level, to sit here and watch her putter.

 

He feels like he’s home. It’s a dangerous feeling to indulge in; Ben knows that well enough. This is not his home, she is not his girl. But there’s no place else for either of them to be right now, so what’s the harm in pretending, for a little while?

 

. . .

 

Any discomfort he’d displayed earlier in the truck has disappeared by the time she hands him his tea; he appears entirely at ease, almost like he owns the place, and she’s the visitor. She sets a mug on the table, sliding it towards him.

 

“Thanks,” he hums, as he cups his hands around it—practically swallowing the mug from view, a wisp of steam the only evidence of its existence—then like an afterthought, he adds, “For everything. The ride, the tea. The… kindness.”

 

Rey hides her goofy grin with a sip of too-hot tea, then sits, unlacing and removing her own boots. She peers out the windows above the sink; it’s really getting dark now. The sun is setting, although there’s no sign of it, besides the fading of the light. There’s also no sign of the storm letting up; if anything, it’s coming down harder, and the howling wind almost masks the drone of the generator.

 

But inside… well. She feels warm, from his words and the tea. From the space heater too, although that feels almost like tertiary heat. Unnecessary. Her face is hot. He’s looking at her, she can feel it, and she sips a little more at her tea before she manages to get out, still hushed: “No problem. I think… we should stay here, for now. Wait out the storm.”

 

“Agreed.” His voice—a rough baritone, she liked it from the first moment he spoke—sounds ragged, with a hint of _something_. That something drags her eyes back to him.

 

His black hair is wet, from the snow; it hangs limply around his face. She finally has the opportunity to study his face head-on, and Rey has to admit: it’s a good face. Strong nose, dark eyes, heavy brow. Pale, surprisingly healthy. Again, she has the notion that he has not been doing this—hitching rides from strangers—for long. Under her scrutiny, he shoves his hair back with a hand, then returns to his own study, of her.

 

“What—what’re you reading?” she asks, grasping at anything for them to talk about. To interrupt the tension. An excuse to break their shared ogling, and take another timid sip from her scalding tea.

 

“ _The Return of the King_.”

 

The ploy doesn’t work; he’s still watching her. “Oh?” Another sip. “You’re a Tolkien fan?”

 

“Yes,” he replies.

 

There’s a messiness, inside her. And not just in her underwear, although she can feel herself getting damp down there, too, under his gaze. But something else—something chaotic. Synapses firing too fast, a sweeping wave of thoughts—of overwhelming desire—dragging her under. She makes herself look at him again; his eyes give away nothing, drink in everything, and leave her feeling exposed. So she nods, then reaches into one of the cabinets above his head, from which she plucks her own book.

 

He presses his lips together, craning his neck to try and glimpse the cover. “What’s that?”

 

Rey would like to think that she gives him a cheeky, teasing smirk, although mostly she just feels shy and maybe even a little sheepish when she answers, “ _The Return of the King_.”

 

“Good taste,” he breathes, relaxing back into the corner of the seat, where a small mound of throw pillows is piled.

 

“It’s been my favorite since I was a kid. I—” she hesitates, unsure how much to admit to him. But his eyebrows lift, the corners of his mouth quirk; he looks interested, like he wants to hear whatever she wants to tell him. “I stole the trilogy from the Saint John public library, when I was a kid.  _The Hobbit_ , too.”

 

“You delinquent.” The words are softened by his teasing tone, his hint of a smile. “They were probably happy to know someone liked them that much.”

 

“Loved,” she corrects. “I _loved_ them. Still do.”

 

“Me, too,” he confesses. “Found in them in a box of stuff in my uncle’s attic, when I was a teenager. Luke—my uncle—he’s an old flower child. Hippies love Tolkien.”

 

“Do they?”

 

“Seems that way, doesn’t it?”

 

“I’ll take your word for it.” She curls up on the other side of the pillow mountain, so close to him she can smell his shampoo—something vaguely minty and herbal. Even at a remove, she can feel his warmth. He radiates it. She’s really not sure if they even need the space heater. Then: “Where are you at, in the story?”

 

“Page one,” he says, “Gandalf and Pippin are just rolling up to Minas Tirith.”

 

“The White City.” She sighs. “I always imagined myself going there someday, when I was a kid. Like… escaping Saint John, running away to Middle-earth. Maybe Gandalf would swing by, pick me up for some world-saving mission.”

 

There’s a long beat before Ben replies, “Yeah. I—I know what you mean.”

 

Their eyes meet, and that sense of kindred spirits floods through her again. He really does, it seems. His gaze flits to her lips for a fraction of a second, then back to her eyes. “Well,” he coughs, then clears his throat and rolls onto his back, bringing his book up to his face. “Happy—reading.”

 

“Yeah,” she murmurs, only allowing herself a moment to stare at _his_ full lips before diverting her attention to her own copy, wherein Aragorn has just arrived in secret at the Houses of Healing. “You too.”

 

. . .

 

They’ve had a filling, if not exactly gourmet, meal of canned soup and crackers, with a couple beers, and have resumed quietly reading, heads resting against the same pile of pillows—when the generator abruptly kicks the can. According to her phone, it’s around eight PM.

 

She probably should’ve expected it; you’re really not supposed to leave portable generators in any place where they can be exposed to inclement weather. And whatever is happening outside—the wind still groans, and the snowflakes have turned to icy little beads that pelt the windows of the trailer—is the very definition of inclement.

 

It happens with hardly any warning. The overhead lights she’d installed in the roof flicker twice, and then go out. Simultaneously, the distant drone of the generator and the faint buzz of the little mini-fridge fall silent. The coils of the space heater, which have been glowing a bright red-orange, begin to fade.

 

“Shit,” she hisses, into the darkness.

 

“Not good,” he agrees. “Should we go take a look at it?”

 

With a sigh, she pushes herself up off the bench, and scrounges around the cabinets until she finds a flashlight. “S’pose we have to.”

 

There’s nothing for it. She tries her best to figure out what happened; as best as she can tell, water’s gotten inside. It might be permanently busted. “Shit,” she repeats, under her breath.

 

From beside her, where he holds the flashlight, its weak beam of light shining down on her hands, Ben shouts over the wind, “Anything?”

 

She shakes her head, resigned, and they trudge back through the snow—almost up to her knees now, and still coming down—and into the trailer. They pull off their drenched winter gear, and Rey pulls a couple of battery-operated lanterns from the storage space under what she’s already come to think of as ‘Ben’s bench.’

 

Then she collapses down onto hers, dropping her head into her hands. “Shit.”

 

A large hand settles on the ball of her shoulder; his grip is gentle, he rubs a little. “Hey,” he says, muted. “It’s okay.”

 

“Sometimes—” her voice breaks, and she has to take a second to swallow back the tears, “I feel like a real dumbass.”

 

“Okay.” He sits on the bench with her—rubbing her back, wide strokes from shoulder blade to shoulder blade, then up and down her spine. “That’s normal.”

 

“Is it?” she croaks.

 

“I think so. Hey—” He moves closer, when the tears begin to spill over, down onto her cheeks. A heavy arm around her shoulder, pulling her into a hug. “Come on. It’s okay.”

 

“It’s just that—I _knew_ you don’t put a generator out in the snow. I’m just—” she gasps, and leans into him, “I’m just so fucking tired, Ben.”

 

“I see that.” Tipping her chin up with his pointer finger, his eyes flick back and forth between hers. His, she observes, look almost obsidian in the low light of the lanterns. Dark and deep and fathomless, like the night outside. Like she’s brought the storm inside with her, and now it’s holding her, comforting her. She sniffles; in a low voice, he says, “Let’s go to bed then, Rey.”

 

The words set her heart racing, and for just an instant, her vision blurs—from the tears or the ferocious surge of adrenaline, she isn’t sure. Bed. With Ben. One bed. One Ben. One Rey. Together, in the bed. Of course she knew, in some part of her mind, that they would end up here. What else was he going to do, sleep in the truck? Still. He’s said it aloud. And it’s as if hearing those six words has pulled at a loose thread in her brain, unraveling the whole thing into a pile of yarn on the floor; she has to take a second and a few deep breaths before she can spool her thoughts back into something resembling coherence, resembling order.

 

“Yeah,” she concurs, at last. She’s playing it cool, or at least—she hopes she is. Just nods, and lets out a deep exhale. “Let’s.”

 

. . .

 

There’s some awkwardness, after she’s opened up the bench seats into a bed and unfurled her foam mattress atop it, then made it up with dark plaid flannel sheets and the two sleeping bags.

 

Because, you see, it’s plenty of space for a tall but slender woman like Rey. A luxury of space, really. But Rey plus Ben, with his six plus feet worth of solid, heavy limbs?

 

Well, they curl up as best they can on either side of the bed, trying to keep a polite distance, although his chest is so wide that Rey feels like she’s humping the wall of the trailer just to avoid brushing up against him.

 

She tries to relax. Tries to calm her racing pulse, tries to surreptitiously squeeze her thighs together to sate the pulsing throb in her cunt. Rey supposes it’s just a physiological response to his proximity. That’s all. She is obviously doing her best not to acknowledge her long-standing horniness, nor the way his heavily muscled body, bared to her when he shucked off his clothes and long underwear, made her mouth water. He’s so warm. And he smells so _good_. If this had happened to her without him, she’d be freezing right now. But both of them, under the sleeping bags? Ben in nothing more than a pair of boxer-briefs, and Rey in leggings and a ratty old t-shirt?

 

She’s sweating. Honest to God. She can feel a bead of it slowly making its way down into the hollow of her throat.

 

Oh, God—she wants to wrap herself around him and hump him or hug him or just let him hold her. She wants to feel his body against hers.

 

 _Close your eyes,_ she tells herself. _Leave him alone. He’s_ stuck _with you, don’t be creepy._

 

Rey falls asleep mentally repeating this mantra; acutely aware of every breath he takes, every time he shifts slightly on the mattress beside her.

 

. . .

 

Ben wakes to utter darkness. The storm’s still raging outside, but he is safe in here. He _feels_ safe, safer than he’s felt in a long time. He’s wrapped himself around a lithe body—feminine, one small breast cupped in the palm of his hand—and he’s lying on a soft bed. Warm. He’s warm; taking off his clothes was a good idea.

 

He always runs a little hot.

 

A soft sound. He doesn’t recognize it for a second, but then he hears it again and _knows_ what it is: a hummed feminine moan. A firm backside pushes into his groin. She tugs on his arm, bringing his chest flush with her back.

 

Is she awake? For a long moment, Ben doesn’t breathe, doesn’t move. He just waits for some sign of what she’s looking for.

 

And what if she’s looking for what he _hopes_ she’s looking for? He wonders. They could mess around, maybe. She’s been kind about everything else so far, maybe she’d be kind about his… issue. Maybe she’d just let him eat her out, fuck her with his fingers. He could do that. He’d be happy to do that.

 

She moans again, shifting her legs. The motion makes her rub up on him, and Ben can feel it starting; blood rushing south, the pinprick pleasure of getting hard. He pushes himself onto an elbow, trying to peer down at her face in the darkness.

 

Eyes closed, breathing even. Shit. She’s definitely asleep.

 

With a defeated huff, he lowers himself back down to the mattress. His cock throbs; he’s completely wired. But he closes his eyes, in the hopes that if he mimics a simulacrum of sleep for long enough, he can will it into existence.

 

. . .

 

Rey wakes to utter darkness, too. A burly arm lies heavy on her waist, and a massive hand palms her breast. She feels… delicate, being held like that. Soft, too, and cherished—even if it’s only Ben groping her in his sleep.

 

Something that she thinks—okay fine, she _knows—_ is Ben’s hard cock has nestled itself between her butt cheeks, and upon confirming that, with a little half-twist of her hips, she is incredibly grateful for the darkness, and the wind, because she lets out a clipped ‘eep!’ and blushes hotter than she has ever blushed before in her life.

 

There is an answering grumble from behind her, low and rough.

 

“Ben?” she whispers. His chest, plastered to her back, sucks in sharply. He’s awake. Rey deliberates for a long time, unsure how far to take this.

 

 _Biology,_ she reminds herself. _It’s only biology. You rub a man’s dick, it’s gonna get hard. Doesn’t mean he’s in love._

 

_Stop thinking about love, Rey._

 

“I’m—just gonna go back to sleep now,” she informs him. “And—we can— _not_ discuss this. In the morning.”

 

He goes so long without responding that she thinks he’s decided not to, or that he’s fallen asleep. It’s only when she lets her muscles relax and snuggles back against him, that she feels his lips brush the shell of her ear, tickling her with his stubble. His voice—still low and rough but maybe just a little bit sad—evokes that needy messiness again, even as he concedes:

 

“Whatever you want, Rey.”

 

. . .

 

And they don’t. Discuss it, that is. He wakes before she does, only allowing himself one luxurious minute to take in the way her dark lashes fan against her freckled cheeks, how her pretty lips hang slightly open, how soft and sweet she looks in the dull light.

 

Outside, the storm has not abated. Judging by the how deeply the generator is buried in heavy-looking wet snow, Ben would guess there’s about two feet of it. He sighs, shaking his head, and turns to figure out just how a man who is six foot three can cram himself into a lavatory that’s about six feet high and two feet across.

 

Not well, is what he discovers. Certainly not with any grace.

 

Another wrinkle, which he only discovers upon turning the handle and running the shower for a couple minutes, is that without the generator… there’s no way to heat the water. It’s ice cold, and frankly, Ben figures he should be grateful he even has that. At least the water supply isn’t frozen solid; it must be well insulated.

 

It’s not like he’d planned on lingering for some exorbitant soak. But he had hoped to at _least_ be able to deal with his still painfully erect cock; had even been looking forward to the thought of jerking himself off to the memory of her breast in his hand. His issue hasn’t been getting hard, that still happens easily enough. His issue has been staying hard, when he’s trying to fuck a woman. There was even some small part of him that was relieved, last night, when Rey told him they weren’t going to talk about the fact that he’d all but claimed her ass as a resting place for his boner.

 

Oh well. There isn’t a chance in hell he’s going to get off while showering in glacial temperatures.

 

“Fuck shit motherfucker,” he mutters through clenched teeth, forcing himself under the stream. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

 

He lasts long enough to work some shampoo through his hair, hastily soap up, and rinse off. Doesn’t bother with shaving, not that he has a razor anyway. Keeps up a steady stream of hissed profanities throughout the entire ordeal, and by the time he’s finished, not even five minutes later, he’s shaking and blue-lipped.

 

But—he reflects, as he turns off the tap and reaches for one of the towels stored in a cupboard under the minuscule sink—at least he doesn’t have to worry about his erection.

 

The ice water has taken care of that.

 

. . .

 

Rey wakes to the smell of coffee, frying eggs, and bacon.

 

“Hey,” she says, voice croaky from sleep, “You’re making breakfast.”

 

“Everything still seems pretty cold in the fridge, long as we don’t open it too much,” is the response she gets. “So I figured this stuff is fine for eating.”

 

She peels one eye open. Ben is dressed in dark sweatpants and the sweater from yesterday, although she can spot a new undershirt peeking out from beneath its collar. His hair is damp, and combed back. His cute ears are visible.

 

“Holy shit.” She sits upright, rubbing her eyes. “Did you—shower?”

 

“Needed one pretty bad,” he answers, with a wry laugh. “It wasn’t fun.”

 

“No kidding. You’re braver than me.”

 

“Don’t know about that.” He half-turns, eyes flicking over her body in a way that makes her heart rate elevate. His voice is completely earnest; its tone makes Rey bite her lip, to keep from blurting out something foolish like _‘forget breakfast, come back to bed.’_ Luckily—or perhaps unluckily—he shifts his focus back to the range and resumes stirring a little plastic spatula around in the frying pan.

 

With a sigh, Rey collapses back into the pillows. She’s too sleepy for emotionally charged staring contests. She’s gonna wriggle back down under the covers. Unabashedly admire Ben’s long legs, his firm ass, and his broad back, while he cooks for her—something no man has ever done for her before.

 

She’s not moved almost to the point of tears. Really. Not one bit. She just likes the view, that’s all.

 

. . .

 

He brings Rey a plate of eggs and bacon, and coffee made in her little french-press. After, he loads up a plate for himself and settles in beside her. She rests her mug on the window sill, he on the kitchenette counter. They eat without speaking—he can tell she’s not fully awake, by the sleepy way she blinks—and stare out the front window at the falling snow.

 

When she’s finished, she hands the plate back to him with a soft _‘thank you, Ben,’_ then curls up on her side. He washes the dishes, leaves them drying on a rack in the sink, then crawls back under the covers.

 

He doesn’t drag her body over to his, doesn’t tangle their legs, doesn’t bury his face in her hair. He lays on his back, fingers laced, and stares up at the wood-paneled ceiling.

 

But he wants to do those things. Even as he drifts back to sleep, it’s all he can think about.

 

. . .

 

The day passes leisurely, in drowsy repose. They stay under the covers—to keep warm, of course. Without ever discussing it, they seem to be in complete agreement that they’re not going anywhere. At least not today. Even without power, they’re sheltered in here, Rey’s got enough food to last them a week at least; the smartest plan is to stay put.

 

It’s safe for them, here in this old trailer.

 

He reads; she plays Tetris on her phone until it dies then resumes her reading as well. It’s not snuggling, exactly, but if their socked feet touch under the covers, if her head is resting on the same pillow as his, and the weight of him depresses it, causing her to lean against his bicep… that’s not her fault. Not his either.

 

Rey will go ahead and blame that one on gravity.

 

Sometime around one—she checks the little battery-operated clock over that hangs over the bed—they get around to bundling up and heading outside, implicitly agreeing that they’re both in need of a little fresh air. Halfheartedly, she tries to build a snowman. It’s misshapen and sad, more like a miniature snow zombie, but Ben still pats her on the back, congratulating her… and dumping a handful of snow down the inside of her coat.

 

“Asshole!” she shrieks, laughing, and kneels to scoop up her own handful.

 

A furious battle follows. It’s not until he’s wrestled her down into the snow and sprinkled snow over her face like a seasoning of salt—pinned beneath him, he runs so hot, she can feel that even with his layers—that she cries out for an armistice.

 

“Mercy! Mercy!”

 

“You admit defeat?”

 

“Yes!” she giggles. “Just no more snow in the face.”

 

“It’s actually pretty good, though.” He leans in close, so close she can feel his breath on her cheek. For one second she thinks he’s going to kiss her and she has to decide how she feels about that.

 

Good, decides Rey. She feels fucking _good_ about that.

 

But he doesn’t kiss her. He buries his face in the snow beside her head, snorting, and comes up with a powder-white mask. “Mmm. Delicious.”

 

Huffing in delight, she asks, “You’re—kind of a goof, aren’t you?”

 

“Hm.” His eyes meander down to her lips, then back up to her eyes, leisurely—and Rey feels that messiness again. But he still doesn’t kiss her, just pushes himself up onto his knees and offers a hand, which she takes. “Maybe.” With a tug, he has her on her feet again, before continuing:

 

“But you still lost a snowball fight to this goof.”

 

“True. Well, you know what they say,” she teases, trying for a flirtatious tone, “to the victor, goes the spoils.”

 

Ben takes a step closer, right into her space. The zippers of his jacket and her coat are touching, and she has to tilt her head back a bit to meet his gaze. He’s breathing heavily, she realizes.

 

“What are my spoils?”

 

She swallows, hard. “What—do—you want them—to—”

 

“Do you really have to ask me that?” His eyes narrow, and he leans in; their lips can’t be more than an inch apart. He’s so close, she could just—

 

“Tell me what I win, Rey.”

 

“Dinner,” she chokes out. “I’ll cook, uh—spaghetti. And bolognese sauce. From a jar, but, uh, that’s the best—”

 

Face sullen and drawn, he acquiesces with a soft: “Okay, Rey. Sounds—great.”

 

Then he’s gone, plodding through the snow towards the trailer, his back to her. The door closes with a heavy thud behind him, resounding in the empty lot.

 

And Rey is left standing knee-deep in snow, wondering what the hell went wrong.

 

. . .

 

Silently, she enters the trailer. Without looking at Ben—although she can _feel_ him looking at her—she peels off her wet outer layers, yanks off her boots, and begins the calming routine of cooking dinner. She triples the amount of everything; after all, she had a front-row seat to how much he ate this morning.

 

He doesn’t initiate any conversation, but he does pull out the dinette table and set some bowls and silverware on it—brushing against her as he retrieves what he needs from the cabinets above the burners—before he returns to the unmade bed, hiding his face behind his book.

 

Even after she places the bowls of steaming pasta on the table, grabbing two beers from the mini-fridge, and they begin to eat—she can’t think of a way to apologize for what was apparently a slight in his eyes.

 

And she feels so stupid. Because he was clearly saying, in so many words, that he was interested. And she balked. And she doesn’t know why.

 

 _You’re a dumbass?_ offers her subconscious.

 

 _Well,_ she thinks, _peering glumly down into her empty bowl, I_ did _leave a portable generator outside in a snowstorm._

 

So… that’s a viable theory.

 

“My parents adopted me when I was thirteen,” she blurts out, glancing up at him from beneath her eyelashes. He startles, but drops his fork into his bowl, devoting his attention to her. “Before that I was—on my own, a lot. I got into trouble. I was on the streets, sometimes. In and out of foster homes, other times. It was a bad life. And they—they gave me—” She sighs, takes a deep pull from her beer. He’s still watching her, closely. Okay. She can do this. Vulnerability. Not her strong suit, but everyone’s gotta start somewhere. “—a roof over my head. They gave me clothes. Dinner, every night. Microwave meals, mostly, but still. The thing is though, it was like… they did it for—the wrong reasons? For appearances? I never felt—”

 

She’s choking on the words, unsure if she can force any more out.

 

He makes a guttural sound, like he’s in pain, then clears his throat. “Loved?”

 

“Yes! That’s stupid, right?” One glance at him gives her the fortitude to keep going; he clearly doesn’t think it is. “I was a homeless orphan and they took me in. That should have been enough.”

 

“No.” He presses his lips together, gives a tight shake of his head.

 

“I—”

 

“No,” he repeats, “that’s _not_ enough.”

 

She sniffs. The tears begin flowing before she even feels the warning signs. Leaping up, she pulls a tissue from the box in one the cabinets and blows her nose.

 

When she returns to the bed, he’s sitting ramrod straight; his whole frame is tense. “Say it.”

 

“Say what?” She frowns at him. What is he—

 

“Say, ‘ _it’s not enough,_ ’” he explains, firmly.

 

“Ben, look, it’s fine—”

 

“Rey,” he cuts in, “it’s not enough. Not for a child, not for a person. Maslow taught us that. I know I haven’t—we just met, but… you deserve—a _lot_ more than that. Say it.”

 

She licks her lips, empties her beer bottle. Grabs another for her and for him. Sighs. He’s still glowering at her, waiting. “It’s not enough,” she parrots back.

 

“You deserve more.”

 

“I—this is stup—”

 

“No, it isn’t.” He takes his bottle from her, opening it on the edge of the table. Even as he drinks, his eyes stay on her. He tips the neck in her direction, with a raised eyebrow.

 

“I deserve more.”

 

“Yes,” he agrees, snatching her hand up in his; he squeezes, carefully. “You do.”

 

“… Ben?” she asks, through the tears.

 

“Yes, Rey?”

 

“Thanks.”

 

“Anytime,” he says, tilting his head to catch her eyes. His voice drops to something even deeper—silky. Confident. “I mean it, Rey. Anytime.”

 

The crazy thing is, despite having met him only a day ago… when he promises that? He sounds so certain, so completely self-assured, that she honestly believes she could come to him, any time, for the rest of her life.

 

How strange. She invited the storm inside, yet she’s never felt safer.

 

. . .

 

“Wait,” she interjects, mid-story. “So it’s like… a sex cult?”

 

“Not—” he groans, runs his hands through his dark hair, “—not exactly. Just… Jesus, I don’t know. New-age hippie shit; leftover flower children who still think free love is the answer to all the world’s problems.”

 

“Isn’t it?” she asks, with a pointed swig from her bottle.

 

He huffs. “Didn’t solve mine.”

 

“So,” she leans in, unable to resist asking, “did you, like, get around—in the commune?”

 

A shrug of those perfect shoulders. He turns his head towards the window, staring out at the darkness. “In my teens. It was great, I guess. For a while.”

 

She can hear the part that’s gone unspoken, so she voices it for him. “And then it wasn’t?”

 

“I got together with a woman,” he says, like an admission of guilt. “Synara.”

 

She’s not jealous. She does _not_ feel her chest tighten up; anxiety does not make breathing a trial. She doesn’t start picking at a bit of skin around her nail. None of that happens. “Uh-oh,” she croons. Her tone is light, amused. Not jealous-sounding at all.

 

“It’s just… I had feelings for her, sort of. Or—I thought maybe I could.”

 

“Did she know?” Still light. This is a very convincing performance she is doing, of someone who is not irrationally jealous, or over-invested in the life of a virtual stranger.

 

“Yeah,” he answers. “She knew.”

 

She scoffs, “What kind of name is Synara, anyway?” Then she winces. Too obvious. _Way_ too obvious.

 

“We all had… aliases. Commune names. Luke called them our ‘true selves.’” He rolls his eyes, takes a sip.

 

“And yours?”

 

He shifts, looking down at the table. Sheepishly, he mutters, “Kylo Ren.”

 

“Huh,” she manages to say, without laughing. Totally neutral. No judgement. “That’s a, um, interesting choice.”

 

“In my defense, I named myself when I was sixteen.” He coughs out a laugh that doesn’t sound very amused. Just dry. Regretful, maybe. “Seemed cool at the time.”

 

“What’s Luke’s?”

 

“Skywalker.” Now he _does_ sound amused.

 

They share a look. Rey breaks first, cracking up. Ben is grinning, though. It’s a good look on him. His teeth are uneven, but white, and when he smiles it creases his cheeks, making him look younger.

 

“Wow,” she drawls, “he really went for it, huh?”

 

“He’s not big on half-measures.”

 

“No kidding.”

 

“Okay, so.” Rey sobers a bit, realizing she should probably redirect him back to the story. “… you had a girlfriend.”

 

“It wasn’t—official. But I cared about her. She knew that. We’d discussed monogamy. And—I walked in on her.” He takes a deep breath. “With Luke. Three weeks ago.”

 

“Holy shit!” Rey slaps the table for emphasis. “Your uncle slept with your girlfriend?” A nod. “So you left? ‘Cause like, yeah—I would’ve been out of there.”

 

Ben sighs. “Not exactly.”

 

She pauses, beer halfway to her mouth. “… No?”

 

“I was—asked to leave.” Again, a mumbled confession.

 

Rey scrunches her nose. Is she too buzzed to puzzle through this, or is it just confusing? No, this is her second beer. It’s just confusing. “Because… Luke slept with your girlfriend?”

 

Slight shake of his head. “Because I burned down his—our— _my_ greenhouse.”

 

“Whoa.”

 

She huffs, stunned. Her mouth gapes, as she tries to think of something to say. Nothing seems appropriate.

 

“It was the only thing the asshole truly loved. More than me, even.” He doesn’t look up from his bottle, just begins to peel at the label.

 

Rey takes a steadying breath. “Did you _love_ Synara?”

 

A quick jerk of his shoulders.

 

“Do you love her now?” she presses, leaning over the table, trying to catch his eyes.

 

He snorts.

 

. . .

 

_Does he love her now?_

 

No. Fuck no. But he’s haunted by her, all the same. It’s not like he walked in on Synara and Luke and immediately threw together a Molotov cocktail.

 

Three. That’s how many other women he tried to fuck, after he found out about them. For two weeks, he wrestled with what to do. And three times, he tried to tumble into bed with someone else.

 

 _Tried_ being the operative word. Because he couldn’t keep it up, because he couldn’t stop seeing his uncle’s hands, three knuckles deep in his pseudo-girlfriend’s cunt. Because every time they put their hands on him, he saw Synara’s elegant fingers, buried in his uncle’s chest hair.

 

Because nothing has ever fucking belonged to him, ever, not permanently, and his parents’ solution for what to do with their sullen law-breaking kid who was earning a reputation for himself in DC—which his mother could not afford—was to send him to live with someone who sees no value in material possessions or monogamy.

 

So he did something destructive and stupid. He regrets it every day; he’d loved those plants. That greenhouse had been his safe haven ever since he’d built it; sixteen, full of spit and vinegar, happy to throw himself into a task, happy to give himself a purpose within Luke’s stupid community.

 

“No,” he tells Rey, at last, forcing himself to meet her gaze. “I don’t. And I don’t think I did then, either.”

 

“Then what was with the whole _Long Hot Summer_ act?”

 

“What?” He grimaces, not understanding—

 

“Paul Newman? Barn burner?” She doesn’t look as weirded out as he thought she might. Looks pretty calm, actually.

 

“Hm.” He sighs, before admitting: “Didn’t watch a lot of movies growing up.”

 

“Oh, right,” she jokes. “Cult.”

 

“Not until I was fifteen. But—yeah.” He stretches his hand out on the table, palm up. An invitation, if she wants to take him up on it. “Cult.”

 

“Sex cult,” she adds, which makes him roll his eyes. But then… she takes his hand, lacing their fingers. Maybe it’s _not_ all fucked beyond repair.

 

“I guess.”

 

And something happens. Something Ben never expected himself to be capable of again: he laughs. Actually laughs. Laughs at the idea of Luke running a sex cult, at the memory of Luke and Synara together, at the bizarre zig-zag of his upbringing, from military kid to senator's problem child to hippie commune member. At his weird, weird life.

 

“So.” She waits until he’s calmed, then offers him a sad smile. “Seriously—why the arson?”

 

He can do this. He can use his words. He can explain himself. “It was a stupid thing to do. I was just—sick of it. Sick of having nothing of my own. Sick of… feeling betrayed, and disappointed. Sick of swallowing my anger.”

 

“You had some stuff of your own,” she argues. “You had parents.”

 

He shakes his head, finishes his beer. “Didn’t feel like it.”

 

“Yeah.” She looks down at their laced fingers, overturning their hands so his rests atop hers. “I get that. Closest I came to feeling like I had a real parent was Lando, the—”

 

“Shop owner,” he interjects.

 

He's pleased when her eyes widen and she smiles—genuine, her face lighting up. “You’re a good listener.”

 

That’s not quite true; he should correct her. “I listen to _you_.”

 

“Oh!” A blush blooms across her cheeks. “I, um, anyway… he helped me out a lot when I was a teenager. Didn’t ask for anything in exchange, just gave me a place to work and a place to live. Taught me what he knew about cars. Gave me advice sometimes. He was a nice guy. He had a wife, but she died a long time ago.” She heaves a weary sigh. “No kids.”

 

“Tough break.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

. . .

 

“He…” Rey chews the inside of her cheek, and shrugs. This isn’t the right time to tell him about the money. “Yeah. Must’ve been. He took me under his wing, though. I miss that. I just—it’s been hard, y’know?”

 

She feels herself cracking up again, tears burning her eyes. Suddenly, he’s there, pulling her into his side.

 

“I know,” he says. And he sounds like he does.

 

“It’s always just—all been up to me. I have to make all the decisions, I’m constantly behind the wheel.” She hates the whining, plaintive tone in her voice, so she tries to backpedal. “It’s nice, but it’s…” Ben nods; his hand on her waist is warm and reassuring. “Lonely,” she forces out.

 

He begins stroking her hair.

 

With a wave of her hands, she says, “I should—clean this up.”

 

“You cooked,” he counters, shaking his head. “I’ll clean.”

 

“But—”

 

“Rey.” His tone is stern. Final. She likes it. “Sit on the bed. Read your book. Relax.” He rises, gathering the dishes from the table.

 

“Is that an order?” she murmurs.

 

He whirls around, head tilted. “Do you—want it to be?”

 

She stares up at him. Gives the teeniest, tiniest dip of her chin. Rey’s not sure what this is exactly, but she’s going to go with it, because it’s the best she’s felt in months.

 

“Right,” he coughs out. “Yeah. That’s a fucking order, Rey.”

 

“Got it,” she concedes, and happily curls up under the covers.

 

. . .

 

He’s breathing heavily, when he joins her in the bed. He always feels kind of winded when he makes big decisions, like this.

 

She peers back at him over her shoulder, her book held open in one hand. “You okay?”

 

“I want to go with you to Saskatoon,” he declares. “If you’re still offering.”

 

“… Oh.” Her expression is owlish; it’s so fucking cute he wants to kiss her. Can almost picture himself doing it, just leaning in to press his lips against hers. But… she hasn’t said anything else, besides ‘oh.’

 

“If—” he sputters, doubt creeping in, “—you don’t want—”

 

She beams at him and reaching back, she gently cups his cheek in her hand. “I do, actually.”

 

“Okay.” He smiles back, feeling light of heart for the first time in a long while. She strokes his cheek with her thumb and they share a long look, before she rolls over, returning to her book. He pulls open his own, diligently pretending to read, although the words swim across the page, an incomprehensible soup of consonants and vowels.

 

. . .

 

“Rey? You awake?” she hears him ask, his baritone voice whisper-soft, all breath and barely any bite. It’s dark in the trailer; he must have turned off the lanterns some time after she fell asleep. The bed, after a night’s sleep and a day of lolling around, smells like them, her own musk mixed with the richer undertones of his. She likes it. Likes the way this bed, and their bodies, smell together.

 

And said bodies—hers clad in the same old ratty pajamas, his in sweatpants—are flush, from the nape of her neck to the tips of her toes. His hand is rubbing her tummy, easy passes up from her pelvis to her ribs, then back down. Just a gentle, steady pattern. Calming. But exciting, too.

 

“…Yes.” Her voice, meant to be soft like his, comes out more as a groan.

 

“Is this okay?”

 

“Yes,” she answers, panting.

 

He brushes his lips along the side of her neck. “You want more, sweetheart?”

 

“Yes.” She pushes back against him, nestling her ass into the seat of his crotch. “Fuck. Yes.”

 

A groan, his; Rey can feel the vibrations of it against her back. “Here’s what I want you to do,” he says. “Lift your leg up, and swing it back. Lay it on top of mine.” She does as he said, opening herself up to his wandering fingers, which have crept under the waistline of her leggings.

 

“Like that?”

 

“Yep.” His hand cups her mons for a moment, just a warm and solid pressure, then seeks out her clitoris. “Just like that.”

 

The direct contact is too much, too abrupt, and she jolts in his arms. “Easy,” he soothes. “Easy.” He lays off the sensitive nub, begins tracing her folds. “Fuck. You’re all wet, sweetheart.”

 

“I know.” She loves this; his touch is still so gentle, so teasing, and she already loves this. “I just—”

 

“You just what? Tell me, Rey.”

 

“I want you—I want you to touch me,” she confesses, hushed. “Being near you like this, I didn’t know if I could touch _you_ , I wasn’t sure if you wanted—”

 

“I want.” He buries a finger in her, thumb softly tracing soft circles around her clitoris. Not touching it, still just teasing. “God, I want.” His voice has gone to gravel, all grit and desire. “You can touch me, Rey. Anywhere. Any time.”

 

“Yeah?” she cries, high-pitched. He’s started to slide his finger in and out, slow. Rhythmic. The circles are getting smaller around her clit; he’s going to touch it, any moment. She can feel it. It’s all she can think about: his big thumb brushing over it, bringing her off with just one hand.

 

Rey feels like she’s living for that touch, that moment.

 

“Fuck,” he spits out. “Yes.”

 

And then he does, returning the pressure just so; to the left, then direct, then to the left again. How can he know that? _Sex cult,_ she thinks, and chokes on a high-pitched giggle as she mewls, “Gonna come, Ben, I think—I’m gonna—”

 

“Good, sweetheart.” He presses harder, grinding the heel of his hand against her, burying what must be his middle finger inside her. His hand is so big, he’s touching her everywhere. This man can just… hold her vulva in his hand, all of it. If that wasn’t enough—draped over his warm bulk, at the mercy of his talented fingers—then his voice is.

 

“That’s perfect,” he murmurs. “Come on my hand, Rey. Fucking come for me.”

 

“Oh!” And he’s done it now, not that Rey minds; she gives herself over to it, her first orgasm at the hands of someone else in years.

 

“Oh, _god_ ,” she breathes.

 

The fluttering starts deep in her cunt, but it races out along her limbs within seconds, until she’s reduced to a shaking mess. Eyes squeezed shut, groaning, his hand gentler now, but still working her through it, still wringing a few errant shivers out of her.

 

She lays her head back on his chest. It occurs to her, as he takes his hand away from her clit, still petting her sopping labia—the muscles in her legs and abdomen twitching with abandon—that they haven’t even kissed yet.

 

So she slurs out, half-coherent, “Wanna kiss.”

 

The angle is awkward, when he cranes his neck and tilts her head back farther, one wet finger on her jaw. Their lips press, but he’s straining, and she’s straining—so he pulls away, to her sleepy protesting groan.

 

A moment later he’s lifted himself over her, then settled between her legs. “That’s better,” he croons, his breath puffing against her face, before he lowers his lips to hers, and kisses her more soundly than she’s ever been kissed in his life.

 

. . .

 

Ben could lose himself in her soft lips, her soft body, her soft sighs. His cock is so hard it’s half-blinding, but this kiss is luxurious and he lets himself get lost in its luxury. Why not? When was the last time he got to have anything that even faintly resembled luxury? She tastes like toothpaste, same as him, and her tongue is shy but inquisitive, brushing against his before retreating. He chases her, in this kiss.

 

He’d chase her in any way she wanted. If she wants to be chased, if she wants to be directed… if she wants to hand over the reins? Ben can be that, for her. He can do that.

 

There are no intrusive thoughts of Synara and Luke, no images of them in flagrante delicto appearing behind his eyelids. There’s just Rey’s tiny waist, her supple breasts, the slight flare of her hips, her thighs—surprisingly strong—clinging to his side. Her ankles are hooked behind him, loosely, keeping him close to her body. Not like he was planning on going anywhere, but it’s nice. Nice knowing he’s right where she wants him.

 

She cants her hips up, grinding herself against him. He should tell her. He doesn’t want to, but he should. She’s been honest with him, and he’s been honest with her.

 

“I, uh.” He breaks away from her, but he’s distracted, momentarily, by her panting, the way her chest rises and falls beneath him. No. This has to be said. “I’ve had some… issues, lately. With… my…”

 

“Okay,” she gasps, breathless. “We don’t have to—”

 

“I don’t—I didn’t know if you wanted to. But if you did, I thought you should know that I couldn’t—I haven’t been able to—” Fuck, this is humiliating. Ben can’t bring himself to say it.

 

“You feel pretty good to me,” she says, flexing her legs to bring them in contact, then swirling her hips. It feels so good he thinks he might come, just from that.

 

“Huh.” He lets his forehead sink down to her collarbone, and twists his own hips, rubbing his cock against her. “I could—” She kisses his temple, so he twists his neck, peering up at her. “I’m gonna eat you out now, Rey.”

 

“Yeah.” Her head is bobbing up and down, enthusiastically. “Good plan.”

 

“Take off your shirt,” he commands, as he reaches for her leggings and her underwear. She helps him, arching her back, then he yanks them down to her ankles, and tosses them over his shoulder. Rey wriggles out of her t-shirt, leaving her completely bare to him.

 

She is… so beautiful. Even like this, with only the thin ambient light of the snow reflecting the moonlight to illuminate her. Lithe arms and legs, a sinuous flat belly, sharp hipbones, mauve nipples puckered into tight buds. Fumbling in the dark, he locates the electric lantern, and flicks it on. It casts a warm golden glow over them, and lets him really take her all in.

 

Her pretty pussy is relaxed, wet and shining, a bit reddened from his ministrations. He could make it redder, though. Ben lowers himself onto his elbows, flicking his eyes up to Rey’s. She’s taking stuttering breaths; they’re making her breasts bounce, and he has to take a detour, to pull one of those taut nipples into his mouth.

 

Salt. A faint sheen of sweat on her skin. And Rey. A flavor that is only Rey. He kisses his way to her right breast, sucking on it until she keens—one hand continuing his attentions on the other, his eyes never leaving hers—then he works his way down.

 

They hold each other’s gaze; as he reaches her trimmed crisp hair, as he dips his tongue under the hood of her clitoris, grinning when she bucks up into his face, as he seeks lower, finding her entrance, as he dips inside, collecting her slick on his tongue and lips. He lifts her up, clutching her beautiful ass—firm, he can feel, two soft but firm globes that fit perfectly in his hands—so that he can lick at her while still looking her dead in the eyes.

 

She starts shuddering, almost at once. “Oh, f-f-fuu-u-u-uck,” she warbles.

 

“Mmhmm,” is his only response, not letting up. She tastes tangy, piquant almost, and at the same time, sweet. And he loves the smell of her, that taste, the way she reaches one shaking hand down to anchor thin fingers in his hair, tugging whenever he tongues at her clit.

 

Coming up for air, he rasps out, “You like that, sweetheart? Tell me if you like it.”

 

“I do.” She’s pawing at his face, trying to mash his head back into her cunt. “Please, Ben.”

 

“You wanna come?”

 

“Ben,” she moans. He spies it, when she decides to try another tactic, since she can’t drag his head back down to her; she hoists her hips up, practically pushing her sex onto his mouth. “Please.”

 

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you.” He gives her a long lick, cunt to clit, then smiles. “No more worrying, okay?”

 

“Yes!” It’s a staccato little shout, breathless, and he rewards her for it by burying his face in her, dedicating himself to mapping her with his mouth. And when she comes? She keens, and wails. Her legs, slung over his shoulders, kick frantically at the air. He can feel the tremors in her flesh; he drinks up the clear, salty nectar that seeps out of her. His hands on her thighs hold her steady, when the aftershocks of her orgasm spasm through her legs.

 

“Damn.” He sighs, easing her back down onto the mattress, and wiping his cheeks with a corner of the flannel sheet. “That was really something, Rey.”

 

“Hnngh,” she replies.

 

. . .

 

Rey feels like a bag of wet noodles. Completely relaxed. He collapses down onto her, and he’s heavy but… she likes it. The feeling on him holding her down, pinned by his broad chest and his hard cock, as he dusts sweet kisses across her shoulder.

 

Eventually, his mouth finds its way back to hers. “Good, sweetheart?” he asks.

 

“Phenomenal,” she sighs. “But—”

 

“Mm?” He’s wandered away now, back down to her breasts. He raises himself up, so he can nuzzle the side of one with his nose, before taking a sensitive nipple back into his mouth. She lets her eyes slip shut, grabs hold of his shoulders; bright colorful sparks explode in the darkness as he sucks and licks at her.

 

“I want you to fuck me.”

 

That brings him back up to her. “Say it again,” he hisses.

 

It’s more difficult to do so, staring into his eyes; the irises are barely there, thin amber rings around his dilated pupils. He sucks in deep gasps, exhaling warm breath against her face. Rey smiles at him. “Hey, Ben? Fuck me…please.”

 

She watches him take himself in his fist; he’s hard, his cock deeply flushed, pre-come smeared over the flared head. He looks almost—surprised?—to find himself in that condition. Rey cranes her neck, peppering his neck and jaw with kisses.

 

“Please.” She says it again and it sounds so needy to her own ears, begging for his dick—and she gives not one single solitary fuck.

 

“Protection?”

 

“Pill,” she huffs.

 

“Okay,” he says, positioning himself at her entrance. “Yeah. Whatever you want, Rey.”

 

. . .

 

When he nudges the first inch or so inside her, she holds her breath. He can feel it, can feel her tensing at his intrusion. She is velvet soft, warm, and although her flesh fights him for half a second, it gives way, and he pushes through. In. Inside. It’s heaven, it’s fucking heaven.

 

“Breathe, Rey,” he bids her, and she does—shallow, distracted, her wide eyes fixed on his.

 

And he doesn’t think of anything but her tight cunt, her short nails scraping his back, her long legs, wrapped around his thighs. Her pretty hazel eyes, which flutter shut when he rocks himself deeper.

 

All he sees, all he tastes, all he feels—is her.

 

. . .

 

It takes a little work to get him seated inside her—he’s a big boy, in every sense—but she tilts her hips and he reaches down to strum her clit with his thumb, like he’s keeping it warm for her; he keeps rolling his hips, and gradually—or is all at once? Who can say? Who cares?—he’s inside. Still hard, breathtakingly thick, long enough that she thinks he might be in her goddamn womb.

 

Rey feels utterly possessed. She continues to rain kisses wherever she can reach: his flat, hard pectorals, his nipples—which earns her a shudder and an appreciative groan—his collarbones, the hollow of his throat.

 

He drops back down onto her, two big hands on her thighs bringing them up against her shoulders. And then his hips are moving, long even thrusts, in and out.

 

The wind must have died down, she realizes, because all she can hear is their heavy breathing, hers littered with whimpers, his with guttural moans, and the wet sound of him driving into her. Didn’t she think this was kind of weird, once? The sound of flesh—dripping, and slippery, and noisy—coming together?

 

It’s not weird, not at all. Or rather, if it is, then Rey is weird, too, because she loves it. Loves the obscene symphony of their bodies moving together. She can hardly move like this—he has her twisted up like a pretzel, just giving it to her, one heavy punch of his hips at a time. He groans on each exit, like it hurts him to leave her cunt, and maybe she loves that?

 

She feels the retreat, hears that groan again.

 

Oh, yeah. She loves that.

 

“Fu—uck,” he hisses. “Rey.”

 

“Don’t leave me.” It comes out like a needy plea, bleated between thrusts. “Please, I need you.”

 

“Right here, sweetheart.”

 

He dips his head down, pulling her into a messy kiss. Everything about this is messy. She’s a sweaty twitching heap, coming sharp and hard on his cock, her cunt pulsing around him; he’s a mess, too, uttering unintelligible words in a voice that is something between a growl and a groan. Soft lips suck hickies into the column of her throat, his chest is heavy on hers, his cock still plunges inside. The sheets are surely a mess, drenched from their exertions.

 

There’s a second set in one of the overhead cabinets, she thinks absently, still coming. And then she stops thinking, because he releases her thighs and pulls her into his arms, clutching her in a bear hug as he pistons his hips. He’s panting in her ear, and fuck, yeah. She loves this, okay? He drives in one last time, grinding his pelvic bone against her clit, making her come. Again. Then his cock twitches, buried deep—to the hilt, his balls resting against her ass. And he’s so big that she feels it, feels him pulse, can almost imagine she feels his come, wet and warm inside her.

 

Or maybe that’s her.

 

Rey doesn’t know; it’s all a mess.

 

But it’s _their_ mess.

 

He groans, one last time, against the underside of her jaw. And tenderly, she reaches up. Begins to stroke the tips of his big ears, visible through his tangled hair. Coos soft words at him, until he collapses on top of her.

 

. . .

 

Holy fuck. Ben rolls off her, onto his side, when he finally comes to his senses.

 

She gets up to pee, and when she comes back—because things have changed, everything has changed between them—he _does_ drag her body across the mattress. Slings one of her slender thighs over his hip, her soft breasts squashed against his chest. They both hiss when their thoroughly ravaged groins come in contact.

 

But he pulls her closer, into his arms, anyway. Yeah, he’s sensitive, and so is she, but he still wants her close. Close as he can be. Close as she’ll let him.

 

“This was a good choice,” she says, under her breath.

 

“Fucking?”

 

She snorts. “Picking you up, keeping you in the car.”

 

“I’m glad you think so,” he huffs, dragging his lips across her forehead. More salt. He could get addicted to this. All the different flavors of Rey. “I do, too.”

 

“Didn’t seem like there were any…performance issues,” she notes. And her eyes flick up to him, totally contented.

 

He smiles. “Nope. Your magical pussy healed me.”

 

“Ha. Ha. Maybe just opening up did, huh?” She arches an eyebrow. “I’ve never—been honest like that, with someone.”

 

“Me neither.” He’s not afraid, like he thought he would be, having told her about the commune and his fucking uncle and his distant parents. He feels safe. She feels safe, to him. He tells her as much.

 

“I feel safe with you, too.” A beat, her eyes raking over his face. “Ben.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I’m rich,” she announces.

 

He laughs, because—well shit, how else do you react to that? “Okay. Rich how, exactly?”

 

“I don’t—”

 

With a little sigh, she hides her face under his chin. Ben gets that; sometimes it’s easier to say things if you don’t have to look the person in the eye.

 

“I don’t really know what Lando was up to, in his younger days. But when he died, he left me a shitload of money. His whole estate—the shop, and his house, but also all these investments, and like… a fat bank account. Very fat.”

 

“Congrats.” Does he sound breezy, like he’s trying for? Or does it come off dismissive? She glances up at him, chewing the inside of her cheek again. “No, I mean it,” he insists. “That’s… freeing.”

 

“I sold the house and the shop. Too many memories.” He nods, begins playing with the silky strands of her hair. “Used the money to buy this—” she gestures to the trailer, “—and I just—set out. My friend Finn, we were foster siblings for a while when we were little. He lives in Vancouver now, so—”

 

“You decided to go visit him,” he finishes for her, when she falters. Rey affirms this, with a slight nod.

 

“Well… good.”

 

“The thing is though,” she continues, fingers running over his bicep, down his forearm, tangling their fingers, “I want to keep you with me. Or, like—I want _you_ to, uh—”

 

His heart skips a beat, maybe. He can’t seem to breathe right. “You want _me_ to keep _you_?”

 

Another nod. “Come to Vancouver with me. I don’t know what you have to do in Saskatoon—”

 

“Nothing, it’s not important,” he hurries to assure her. “It was just a place to go.” He’d pick driving to Vancouver with Rey over sitting around in fucking Saskatoon with Snoke, any day. It’s not even a contest.

 

“So… is that a yes?”

 

She looks so hopeful, her eyes round like saucers; Ben imagines he looks the same way, peering down at her.

 

“Whatever you want, Rey,” he says, and the words taste right on his tongue. It’s a refrain he could get used to.

 

She wants a co-pilot? Whatever she wants.

 

She wants someone to fuck her hard? Or gentle? Whatever she wants.

 

She wants someone to boss her around, sometimes? Whatever she wants.

 

She wants someone to spend his life proving to her how much she deserves love?

 

Whatever she wants.

 

“Good.” Her voice is soft, dreamy; eyes slipping shut, her body pliant against his. “Whatever I want.”

 

Carefully, he reaches over her to turn off the lantern, then nestles down into the covers.

 

And softly, barely loud enough to be heard—but he’s straining his ears, listening for her heartbeat and his in the otherwise silent night—he hears her say: “I just want you.”

 

“You got me.”

 

. . .

 

The weather has cleared by the time they awaken. They lounge in bed for a bit; Ben brings her off with his fingers again, then she straddles him, riding him hard.

 

He likes that, likes watching her sweet tits bounce for him, like how she bears down, her hands clutching his shoulders, leaning in for quick kisses before she gets back to work. Likes helping her when she starts to grow tired, thrusting up into her hard and fast until they both cry out.

 

More mess. But good mess, welcome mess.

 

. . .

 

They clean up after, set the trailer back to rights, make a little coffee. Rey brings the defunct generator inside, reasoning that they may be able to find a specialist at a Canadian Tire and, if not—well, she’ll dispose of it and buy a new one there.

 

The view is incredible, so she tugs him across the abandoned parking lot towards the edge, insisting that he needs to see this. When they’re right up against the railing, he looks down at the steep drop, and then out. She follows his gaze. The forests of central Ontario—buried under snow, yet still their evergreen tips peek through—roll over hill after hill, all the way to the cloudless horizon. The sky above them is a perfect cyan blue, the air is crystal-clear, and the ivory snow sparkles, dazzling in the brilliant morning light.

 

“Pretty good scenery,” he admits. “But I liked the view inside better.”

 

She blushes and grins, and they lose a little time making out, after that.

 

Miraculously, the engine starts right away, after they’ve released the stabilizer jacks, re-hitched the trailer, attached the snow chains to the truck’s tires, and climbed inside.

 

She settles into the passenger seat, completely at peace. Ready to take a ride with Ben, ready to learn more about him, ready to see the world. Ready to take a chance on him, ready to feel safe with him. Ready to keep him safe.

 

Ready to admit how lonely she was, now that she’s not.

 

When he looks over at her, he beams—actually _beams_ , his whole face lighting up, dimples appearing in his cheeks—then quirks an eyebrow.

 

She beams right back.

 

. . .

 

There’s no reception when Rey flips on the radio and scrolls through the stations, before shrugging and relaxing into her seat. But the two of them, sharing the same air, it’s not as stilted as it was two days ago. It’s nice.

 

“Tell me something about yourself,” she says—not knowing or caring what he chooses to share, just happy in her confidence that he _will_ share something.

 

“I’m a pretty decent calligrapher,” he admits, with a smile.

 

“Oh. My. God. There’s a story behind that.”

 

“There is.”

 

Ben takes a second to acclimate himself with the controls—here is the brake, here is the gas, there is the gear shift, there are the high beams—and then they’re off, rolling their way through deep snow. The chains hold, the tires move.

 

He merges from the ramp onto the highway, and begins to accelerate. Before them, the road stretches on forever and ever.

 

But it’s not the same road it was two days ago. It’s different, too, like everything else.

 

Hopeful. Fucking hopeful—that’s how he feels. He thought he’d lost that, permanently. But he hasn’t. And moreover, safe. He feels safe. In control. Content. He has the beginnings of something all his own, now. No more walking along the side of the road for Ben.

 

He tells her about himself and she tells him about herself. On and on it goes. He sees it, now, like it was destiny: two lives, joined by a chance meeting on a lonely highway. So much to explore, so much to discover. Forever and ever, or whatever slice of forever that they can claim for themselves. He laughs, because he can, because he feels light as air, because a weight has been lifted, then steals a glance at her, seeing a sleepy smile, her head lolling sideways against the headrest, listening to him speak—

 

She looks content, too.

**Author's Note:**

> **Some notes?**
> 
>  
> 
> What's the [Trans-Canada Highway](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trans-Canada_Highway)? [Interstate 90](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Interstate_90)?
> 
> Where is [Saint John](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_John,_New_Brunswick)? [Saskatoon](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saskatoon)? [Vancouver](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vancouver)?
> 
> What's a [quahog](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hard_clam)?
> 
> A [1932 Bluestar](http://www.classic-motorcycle.com/BSA-Bluestar-W32-7-1932-500cc-1-cyl-ohv-a-84/). And here is one with a [sidecar](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/79/b8/af/79b8afaa21a6779c21016a336ffa69e2.jpg).
> 
> Want to know more about [Algonquin Park](http://www.sbaa.ca/about.asp?n=278&o=1&cn=281)?
> 
> [Tips and tricks](https://camperreport.com/travel-trailer-camping-guide-beginners/) for beginner trailer campers.
> 
> This person completely renovated their [vintage Airstream](https://mysweetcottage.com/a-vintage-airstream-makeover/). It's beautiful and to be honest, this is my dream home.
> 
> A look at the [1966 Airstream Caravel](http://www.airstreamclassifieds.com/ads/1966-airstream-caravel-17-washington/). Some [schematics](https://www.airstream.com/wp-content/uploads/archive/dfe2eb0425a3dbc0.pdf).
> 
> Canadians call winter hats [toques](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Toque#Canadian) and I love that.
> 
> What's a [Molotov cocktail](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Molotov_cocktail)?
> 
> What is [Maslow's hierarchy of needs](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maslow%27s_hierarchy_of_needs)?
> 
> What is [_The Lord of the Rings_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Lord_of_the_Rings) and [_The Hobbit_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Hobbit)? [Minas Tirith](http://lotr.wikia.com/wiki/Minas_Tirith)? [Houses of Healing](http://lotr.wikia.com/wiki/Houses_of_Healing)? Who is [Gandalf](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gandalf), [Pippin](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peregrin_Took), [Aragorn](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aragorn)?
> 
> What are the [risks](https://www.gentent.com/category-s/1992.htm) of running your portable generator in inclement weather?
> 
> What is [_The Long Hot Summer_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Long,_Hot_Summer) and why does Rey make reference to it? [I don't know, except that there's just... something about Paul Newman in that film. Whew.]
> 
> One final thing: many, many thanks to [slipgoingunder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slipgoingunder/pseuds/slipgoingunder), who is writing an excellent fic named [_Doing the Unstuck_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15877074/chapters/36993807), whose characterization of Luke massively inspired my own, in this story!! That story is truly the best and I beseech you to go read it, if you have not already.
> 
> Okay, that's all from me! Thanks for reading, and happy holidays! ✹ ✺ ✻ ✼ ❈ ✮ ✡


End file.
